


Not So Scrupulous

by Perfunctorily



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Every theon ship is just throbb in a sad hat, Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Red wedding never happens, Robb marries the frey girl, Theon doesn't leave, Vomiting, all I'm saying is that Edmure grew up with a gay uncle, and would probably want to give it a shot at some point, but not in a kinky way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfunctorily/pseuds/Perfunctorily
Summary: Theon is miserable, Edmure is curious. Both of them are drunk enough to do something stupid. Somehow, this is about Robb.





	Not So Scrupulous

The air in the feast hall at the Twins is hot and close. The lords of the North, the Neck, and the Riverlands, as well as a great many of the knights in their service celebrate, crammed elbow to elbow onto long benches along with the entire Frey household, which is saying something considering the ferrety bastards take up a third of the seating.

The smells of food, of dogs, and the breath and bodies of a whole host of men mix with the smoke of a score of torches into a stifling miasma, and Theon stews in the thick discomfort of it. 

It should be a joyous occasion. Their king is getting married. But tired, sullen expressions outnumber smiles from what he can see, though that just might be the wine.

After all, he had spent the ceremony surreptitiously sipping, and the feast unceremoniously gulping it. And as the faces at the other end of the hall start to blur, he can tell he’s nearing the ’fall down, vomit, and humiliate himself at his foster brother’s wedding’ stage of the evening.

It’s just that he can’t prevent his eyes from wandering back up the dais. Lady Stark sits stiff but proud, Walder Frey looking old and mean and pleased with himself, Robb looking tall and noble beside his Frey girl, and her, looking so _happy_ that every time Theon sees her he takes another swig. And why shouldn’t she be happy? Queen in the North, and her king a handsome youth, not some old man she scarcely knows. She probably isn’t even looking forward to the bedding with dread, but yearning for it. Theon catches himself glaring, and finishes his cup.

It’s only a moment later that he’s looking again though. Robb meets his eyes this time, and Theon can just tell from the cant of his eyebrows that he knows he’s been looking, and he can see the concern, the question forming on his face.

He can’t do it. He looks away and there’s no more wine in his cup to down.

It’s too bloody hot in the hall.

He heaves himself to his feet as steadily as he can, mentions something to Smalljon Umber about a piss, and makes his wobbly way out of the hall. Umber, to his credit, wasn’t even paying attention to Theon, too busy chatting up Dacey Mormont, and nods him off without a question.

Once he’s cleared the dizzying haze and noise of the feast, though, he squints at the servants bustling in and out, and realizes he has no earthly idea where the privy is. _Fuck_ , he’s too drunk for this. He doesn’t trust himself to both get the attention of a servant and ask where to piss without somehow causing this whole precarious alliance to come crumbling down around him, so he spits on the floor and starts walking. Maybe if he wanders around enough he’ll just stumble across it.

He makes a left turn, but that leads him to a kitchen, some unfriendly looking scullery maids, and a downright murderous looking cook.

“Pardon.” Theon tacks on his grin and excuses himself back out into the hall. “Old bitch.”

He opts to go right this time. Winterfell had never been so confusing as this, and he’s starting to feel sick, and drunker than he had been. That last cup of wine is catching up to him fast and every step makes it worse.

It seems like only an instant later that he looks up and finds no servants around him anywhere. He can’t actually remember when exactly the last servant he saw passed him. His breath is coming a little ragged now, he knows he’s going to be sick. How long ago had the kitchen been?

A look back tells him it was definitely not as recent as he might hope. He can't even hear the revelry of the hall anymore.

He doubles back, suddenly worried, and starts walking faster, stumbling. It only takes a moment and a few more confused turns before Theon’s feet finally have the good graces to trip over each other and send him sprawling to the stone floor, where he stays, wretched, with his face on the crack between two large slabs of stone.

This is good, and right, and he thinks he’ll stay like this for quite some time. Slate floors are underrated for their comfortability, if not their capacity to keep still. The whole castle whirls around him and the back of his throat feels thick and miserable. It takes an effort but he gets up to his knees and shuffles over to some kind of large decorative urn by the wall. His hands touch cold bronze and he’s sick into it before he knows it.

 _At least I kept it out of the feast hall. At least Robb isn’t watching and ashamed, making excuses to his mother and new lady wife for his friend’s behavior_. The thought is bitter. His mouth tastes bitter. He coughs, wipes at his face absently with the back of a hand. Pathetic. Really, truly, he’s a paragon of shame. But he already knew that, and nobody’s around to see, so what’s he feeling so fucking sorry for himself about?

“Greyjoy?” someone says, and Theon’s spine crawls. A pair of boots appear in the corner of his vision. “Greyjoy! there you are.” He rolls his streaming eyes up and finds a smudge of a blue tunic, and catches a glimpse of the sympathetic, red bearded face of lord Edmure Tully looking blurrily down at him.

“Come for the show?” Theon asks the bronze vase he’s clinging to. On second thought, perhaps it's not a vase, but some kind of flagon, for decanting half a barrel of wine into. But it’s just sitting on the floor by the wall between two tapestries, like someone thought that expanse of hallway was looking a bit plain. He almost giggles at the thought.

“You missed the bedding.”

Theon stops trying not to giggle, and starts retching again.

He hasn’t eaten hardly anything at the feast though, so all that’s coming up is deep red bile, stained by the wine. He half wishes it was blood. _Maybe if I die here I won’t have to explain to Robb on the morrow why I wasn’t there to see him off to the bedchamber_.

Something gently prods him in the side, and he finally manages to pull his head far enough out of the vase to look at Edmure, who is poking him with the toe of his boot for some reason.

“What do you want, Tully, can’t you see I’m busy with this,” he gestures to the metal _thing,_  “this pitcher.”

“I can see that well enough, but my lady sister asked me to come find where you’d gone off to. His Grace expressed concern at your absence.” 

“Well you’ve found me,” Theon does not have enough sobriety left over to stop himself from continuing, “now piss off.”

He’s just met with a laugh, and a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lad, let’s get some water in you before the old weasel comes looking for his favorite chamber pot and finds you’ve filled it with wine.” 

Protest as he might, water sounds too good to pass up. Theon lets Edmure help him up. He’s strong and his hands are big, his fingers wrap all the way around Theon’s forearm where he holds it steady over his own shoulders. That shouldn’t make Theon gulp, but there it is. 

“M’ not a lad,” he groans, Edmure can’t be more than five years his senior. Theon’s been a man grown for years now. Nobody calls Robb ‘lad’, and his voice still cracks sometimes. He’s their king now though. Gods. Robb, king. 

“Of course not,” comes the cheerful reply. 

Theon is sure he can’t imagine what the young lord of Riverrun has to be so cheerful about, besides finally inheriting. He’d seemed distraught enough at the funeral though, and not the type to wish for his father’s death to get his castle. 

_I’d be cheerful_. _I’d be grinning on that Seastone Chair_. He thinks it automatically, he’s always thought it, whenever he lets himself consider that far off, distant possibility of what happens when his father dies, that’s what he’s told himself. Tonight though, he can’t even remember what the hall his father sat court in looked like. But there are big warm hands supporting his back, and the brush of wiry red hair on his cheek, and Theon appreciates the help, really. It’s just that he’d have preferred to wallow in misery for a bit longer. 

“Not enjoying the wedding?” Edmure asks, casual and breezy.

“Mngh,” Theon replies definitively

“In truth, I was glad of the excuse to leave the hall,” Tully continues, undaunted by Theon’s sullen, sick silence. “all the fun in weddings is over after the bedding, and the Umbers had drunk each other under the table.” 

Theon grunts

“All the pretty girls left after they got their hands on the Young Wolf.” Theon’s stomach threatens to heave again, “Off to bed, or their husbands. The only ones left were busy, Mormont, or my sister.” He gives Theon a pat. “And you’re my happy excuse not to see her sad face.” 

They go up some stairs and down some hallways. It might have been only moments, or long minutes of walking, but it’s not too long before he finds himself sitting in a room with cool water in a cup at his lips. Theon gulps it greedily, the bitter tang of half digested wine washed from his mouth. 

It’s a bedchamber, Theon realizes. He’s sitting on a bed. He’d been too focused on the water, and keeping his feet under him to have paid any attention to where they were going.

Of course, Edmure, uncle of the groom, some fucking place in the new line of succession has his own room, and it's a nice one at that. Walder Frey is probably hoping to get a third marriage in, or at least secure a second while Arya is still in the wind. Pampering the other most eligible bachelor in the royal family is as wise a move as any since it seemed they’d gotten here before he managed to betray them for Lannister, he might as well capitalize. Theon isn’t bitter, he swears. His tent out in the mud is perfectly fine.

He’s feeling quite a bit better now actually. The water helps too, and the calm dark of a room with no torches in it. Having nothing in his stomach is delightful.

Edmure seems to forget all about him and flop, face up, onto the bed next to him. Theon squints. He hadn’t realized Edmure was drunk too, but now he isn’t looming over him or half carrying him up stairs, it’s quite clear. Lady Stark probably used Theon as an excuse to get Edmure out of the hall. He’d been looking rather friendly with one of the prettier Frey girls the last time Theon remembered seeing him. He’s all flushed, and his curls, splayed on the pillow, are in disarray. His thick red beard is flattened on one side from resting on his hand at table. It’s so charming that before he notices what he’s doing, Theon’s got his fingers in it. 

Edmure doesn’t bat his hand away like Theon expects he might. He just gives a little sound of something. Surprise? Pleasure? Then a gentle hand grabs the front of Theon’s doublet and pulls him down. 

His head lands softly on the bedspread, missing the pillow. He drops the empty cup on the floor. Edmure looks at him with bemusement in his eyes, palm splayed on Theon’s chest.

“Is it like that then?”

“Like what?”

“You Northern boys, I always wondered”

A cold hand clenches in Theon’s stomach. “It’s not fucking like that.” 

He pushes Edmure off of him, suddenly too hot again, uncomfortable. Why the hell did he come all the way up to the bedchamber? _It’s not like that_. It isn’t. Theon sits back up and gets his legs off the bed. He should leave. He should go out to his tent and find some camp follower to forget about all of this with.

“Peace, Greyjoy, I meant no insult.” Tully rests a hand on his shoulder, Theon shrugs it violently off. 

“I’m not some pervert! I’m not even fucking N _orthern_. I’m Ironborn, a Greyjoy of Pyke.” There’s a whine in his voice that he hates. His heart is pounding in his chest. 

“Aye, and I a Tully of Riverrun. _The_ Tully of Riverrun now. I only meant—”

“To fuck me while I’m drunk?”

“I only meant that I’d heard tell.” He sounds more hurt than anything else, and tipsy, no humor or anger to speak of in his voice. “That the old gods are not so scrupulous as the Seven. I know little of the drowned god, but I know sailing, and a man may spend months aboard a ship with no company of women.”

The panic seizing Theon’s insides eases, just slightly. “Gods.” He lets out a breath and it’s almost a laugh. “You’re curious.”

He looks back at lord Edmure and finds him sitting up, face even more flushed. He meets Theon’s gaze so earnestly that he looks like a boy, never mind the beard. He looks like a very specific boy, and something else clenches in his stomach, but this time it’s warm. 

Edmure has to think on his reply, but it comes out as earnest as his look. “I’ve had many girls, many pretty girls, and I love them well, but I thought– I had thought, mayhaps.”

“Mayhaps is for whorehouses and Freys,” Theon spits. “I’m no two copper whore.”

Tully looks taken aback. “Whores talk.”

“And Northern boys don’t?” _Drunk boys don’t, men who are ashamed don’t_. 

“If the thought offends, then by all means take your leave.” There’s a cool challenge in the words. He means it. He’d let him walk out the door, but something, somewhere in his face calls Theon a coward if he does it.

He should. He really, really should. He very nearly does. But somehow, he’s still sitting on the bed. He isn’t a coward.

He kicks off his boots. _Fuck it_. Fuck everything. If he doesn’t do it, he’s sure Tully will come up with some vicious rumor to spread about him anyway, and he isn’t so blushing of a maid to flinch from a challenge. He’s drunk. Everyone and their cousin is going to bed with someone tonight and Theon doesn’t want to go back out in the rain to find his tent.

“Any word of this gets out, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Edmure fairly grins at him. 

He’s quite handsome, really, when Theon looks at him. He’s got those red curls, blue eyes, and under the blush he’s got a generous helping of freckles. His smile is roguish too. No wonder so many pretty girls had fallen to his conquest. And when he pulls his tunic off and drops it off the bed in one clean move, it’s clear that he’s by no means poorly built. 

“You’ll not fuck me though. No Greyjoy gets taken in the rear.” 

Edmure rolls his eyes. “Do you always have a small council meeting and draw up battle plans before you bed someone?”

He only has time to make a squawk of indignation before Edmure’s grabbed his hips and pulled him into his lap. He’s _strong._ Theon rests his hands on his broad chest, and feels against his thigh, that he’s half hard already. 

Fingers start unlacing Theon’s doublet, and for lack of something better to do with his hand, he rubs a thumb at the soft hair of Edmure’s neck. 

“Why am I your experiment?” Theon’s interested now the fear has gone down. The lump of the man's throat bobs under his touch as Edmure swallows, and, yes, alright, even Theon has to admit that’s something. His cock twitches. 

Tully’s hands still for a moment. “Until now I had no opportunity. Had he known, my father...,” he trails off, fingers resuming until he’s got the doublet half open. “My father would have brooked no indiscretions. You know of my uncle Ser Brynden.”

“The old Blackfish?” 

Tully leaves it at that, as if that explains anything. Theon had known vaguely that Lord Hoster and his brother had quarreled, and the Blackfish had spent the better part of the last twenty years in the vale wearing his disownment proudly, but he’d hardly paid enough attention to know why. 

He’s too interested in Edmure’s mouth to press him for details anyway. He drags his hand up through his beard, over his chin, and presses the thumb to his plump lower lip. Without hesitation, a pink tongue swipes out and tastes it. His cock jumps. 

Tully gets a hand inside his shirt and starts to feel around. Its rough, calloused, and warm against his skin. His other hand is still firm on Theon’s hip, and he rocks it, just so, and Theon can more than just feel him. Unbidden, he remembers the song about the floppy fish, and snickers to himself about how very wrong it was. 

“So now you’re free to just fuck any boy that falls in bed with you?” Theon’s grinning now, back in familiar territory, the girls at the Winter Town brothel always liked when he ran his mouth. “Wondering about cock for all those years like some cheap slut?” but the insult dies in his throat when Edmure takes his thumb into his mouth and _sucks_ it. 

Theon moves the digit, feeling his tongue swirl around it, and has to remind himself to close his mouth. _Fuck._ He’s hard now and no denying it. 

He pulls his thumb out with a pop, and now the look on Tully’s face is wicked. The weight shifts, and his back hits the mattress. Suddenly he’s not on top of Edmure anymore, but Edmure’s on top of him, between his thighs. 

“What are you doing?” panic back in his voice. 

“Sucking you off?” The man starts to shuffle lower, Theon’s doublet is all the way open now, and the hand that had been exploring his chest and stomach is moving towards the laces of his trousers. 

“Oh.” As if it were obvious. 

His cock springs out as readily as it ever had. This, he knows, he’s done this more times than he can count. So when that hot tongue reappears to lap at him, he groans and sinks a hand into thick auburn hair. 

Edmure, for his part, has clearly not done this before. He licks the head a few more times before putting it between his lips, experimentally. Theon had no doubts that he’d received more than his fair share of these, but knowing what you liked was not the same as doing it. 

His hips quiver, longing to thrust up into him, but that would only gag him. Slowly, in his own time, Edmure starts to bob. Theon breathes. It’s good. He works the first few inches. Down, and up, a slurp, and back down. Gradually, he takes him down to more than half. He might be new to it, but, for lack of a better phrase, he takes to it like a fish to water. Theon does actually snicker at that, but Edmure doesn’t seem to notice. 

It’s noisy, and messy, saliva drips down his shaft and starts to pool in his pubic hair. Theon wants to watch, wants to see his cock disappearing into the man’s mouth, but his head falls back onto the bed and he just listens to the wet sounds, his hand going up and down with Edmure’s head. It’s filthy. He shouldn’t love it as much as he does. He always loved the filthy sounds. 

“Fuck. Gods.” There’s a hand on his thigh and another on his belly. He could get used to this. 

He’s just about to start fucking back into Edmure’s mouth when he pulls off. Theon whines and opens his eyes. He lifts his head up and looks down at him again. His eyes are feverish, face somehow even pinker. Spit shines on his fucked-red mouth and chin. _Gods be good_ , Theon’s had this dream. 

Before the other man can do anything else, Theon sits up and starts struggling out of the rest of his trousers. When he’s kicked them clean across the room, he crawls closer and pushes at Edmure’s chest. 

He can’t seem to speak, but his meaning get’s taken well enough. He’s doing this, he’s gone to bed with a man but he’ll be damned if he’s going to lie back like a maid and take whatever he gets. Edmure lies back easily though, and now Theon’s the one between his thighs. This is right, this is how it should be. He doesn’t have time to wonder why his hands are trembling anyway. But he manages to get Edmure's breeches unlaced without too much trouble. His cock is thick, and dark with need, and hot to the touch. Theon takes it in hand and strokes a few times just to get acquainted. The trembling stops. 

He’s done this before too, and not just himself. There had been a stable boy at Winterfell for a few moons, when he was six and ten that he’d— Well. They’d had a deal. Theon had wanted to take out a particularly fine horse, and a coin hadn’t been what the boy had wanted in bribe to not tell anyone he'd taken it. From there it had gone for a few weeks, never more than wanking each other off in the empty stables, and then he’d had to leave, his mother took ill and they’d gone south for warmer weather. 

Theon shakes his head. The stable boy was nothing. He has nothing to do with this. He barely remembers what the boy looked like now, and Edmure certainly looks nothing like he had. No, Edmure, with his auburn hair and those eyes, peering down at Theon with lust and _want_ looks like something else entirely. 

He spits on his cock and Edmure moans something that might have been “Seven above.” Theon starts Jerking him again, Long, quick strokes. He crawls, one handed, up Edmure’s body and takes a nipple in his mouth. He knows what he’d do with a girl’s teat but here, he’s not so sure. He settles for licking circles around it and sucking. It seems to do the trick because more curses fill the room. 

An idea strikes him, and he sits up again, bracing a hand on Edmure’s chest. 

He makes a questioning sound. “Wh- Greyjoy?”

Theon shushes him and lines up his own cock so it lies next to his. He’s so hard he’s arcing up towards his own belly. He’s sure that if he doesn’t fuck something soon, he might die. He gives an experimental thrust, it’s something, a bit of friction, but it’s not great. Then Edmure catches on. He shifts his hips, lifts a knee just so and then he licks his hand and adjusts the two of them together. He strokes them both up and down and Theon shudders. He leans forward and thrusts into his grip. O _h_. It’s more than something. 

After that, there’s nothing in the world Theon can do but thrust. Edmure is broad and firm under him, he’s got his big hand around both of them, and it's so good. 

They’re sliding together, spit slick, and the man is gasping and he’s looking at Theon with those eyes. Theon’s unavoidably getting close the edge, but he can’t look away. He looks like– He almost looks like–. He leans down, almost to kiss him and he feels like he’s falling and his eyes are blue and blue and blue and Theon gasps “Robb!” and spurts suddenly all over their bellies.  

Theon shudders and twitches and pants, barely stopping himself from collapsing on top of the man under him.

Fuck. 

There’s no way he missed that. 

Theon doesn’t want to see what kind of reaction that little outburst elicits from Edmure, so without so much as meeting his eyes, he sheepishly slides down between his legs and takes his cock in his mouth. 

Tully doesn’t seem particularly inclined to complain. 

He sucks him down easy enough. He can taste some drops of his own seed but can’t seem to bring himself to care much. It’s easy, so easy to close his eyes and just do it. He uses one hand to fist the base while bobbing on the rest of him. He’s thick, but not so thick Theon can’t get him all the way into the back of his throat. 

It barely takes two minutes of this before Edmure’s grabbed a handful of Theon’s hair so tight it stings.

“Fuck. Hells. Greyjoy. Fucking—” He swears enough like a reaver that Theon almost forgets he’s the lord of great house while he spills down his throat. Theon doesn’t have time to consider spitting it out, just swallows it all. 

Then it’s over. Tully’s softening cock falls out of his mouth with drool and seed. Theon looks up, and whatever spell came over him vanishes and he’s back in a big, dark room, a little too cold for comfort without a torch or a brazier going. His head is starting to hurt.

Tully looks pleased, sleepy, still drunk and basking in the glow of getting off. He makes his way back up to the pillows and lays down with a _whump,_ seed still glistening on his belly. His arm is outstretched as if inviting Theon to cuddle up next to him. He might almost be Robb offering a hug. But he’s not Robb, and Theon feels sick again. Not vomit sick, but bone deep, heart deep sick. It shouldn’t fucking matter that he isn’t Robb. It shouldn’t fucking matter that he _looks_ like Robb. 

Theon stumbles out of the bed and finds his trousers and boots. It’s not until he’s got himself wiped off with a rag and his doublet done back up that Tully seems to realized that he hasn’t just gone to get another sip of water. 

His curly head rises from the bed, half sitting up on his elbows again. “Theon? Where are you going?”  


“Back to my tent.” He doesn’t know why he feels guilty. But he wants to crawl out of his skin with it. 

“It’s still raining.”

“Rain never killed me yet.”

Edmure sits all the way back up. Theon can’t see his eyes from here but somehow he knows exactly the look in them. “You could stay. No one would talk, they’re all watching the wedding chamber.”

“I’m going back to my tent,” Theon repeats, dumbly. It's all he can think to say.

“I’m not him, I know. But you _could_ stay.” Tully says, with too much kindness and understanding in his voice. 

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he shoots over his shoulder and walks out. 

Edmure doesn’t try to stop him.

The castle seems much less confusing on the way back down to the hall. He even knows where he is well enough to avoid the room with a dozen people outside giggling, whispering, and listening at the door.

The hall proves just as deserted and melancholy as Tully suggested. Probably moreso now. Dacey Mormont is under the table, SmallJon Umber on top of it. Lady Stark has left the dais, and is talking quietly with some Mallister man. Theon is just about to slip out the door when she calls out to him.

“Theon.” Her voice is soft, but as steely as ever. He freezes and turns to her, head bowed. He never could get over his fear of her. 

“My Lady,” he says, looking at his feet. He can still taste her brother’s seed on his tongue, and that’s not the half of why he’s too ashamed to meet her eyes.

“Did you happen to see my lord brother? He left the hall more than an hour past.” Her voice accuses him, Theon had left even before Edmure had, and she’d sent him to bring the both of them back.

“Aye... I passed Lord Edmure in the hallway. He is abed now I believe.”

“Ah.” She sounds sad, suddenly, and Theon looks up at her. She looks so tired, he realizes. He’d never thought of her as old, always ageless and beautiful. But she looks almost old, tired, and sad.

He wants to put a hand on her shoulder, irrationally. She would never accept such a gesture from him, but he feels something deep down in his gut that if he were just a bit more foolish, he might have thought was akin to her grief. Lord stark dead, her father dead, the girls captive, and now Robb, her boy that she always doted on, a man grown, crowned, wedded, and bedded. 

He can almost delude himself into thinking there’s a bit of warmth in her eyes along with the sadness as she looks at him. “Goodnight then, Theon.” 

“Goodnight, my Lady.” He turns, and walks out into the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent way too long trying to figure out if medieval castles had decorative floor vases and I'm still not sure if they did.


End file.
